Tryst

  Dedication

  To Tim.

  Thank you for loving me so beautifully.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser

  Also by S.L. Jennings

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  I could have easily told him what I wanted. I should have. I see that now.

  I could have reached across the white-linen-covered table, grasped his large hands, and leveled my stare with his, before spilling my guts all over my half-eaten, olive oil–poached branzino.

  I could have said, “Tucker, I love you. You’re a wonderful husband, partner, friend, and lover. And my life would be empty without you. But honey . . .

  “I need to be fucked.

  “Not your version of fucking—which is great, and all—but fucked like you hate me. Not like you love me, because I already know that. I’ve always known that. And as much as I wish that love was enough . . . it’s not. So please give me what I need. Please do to me what you deem dirty and disrespectful. I need you to understand that. I need you. But I need this too.”

  It would have hurt him, but he would have understood. He always did.

  Then we wouldn’t be where we are now.

  Scared. Excited. Naked.

  My loving husband and me.

  And him.

  Maybe I should have told him what I wanted from the start.

  But then again, maybe not.

  Chapter One

  He was doing it again.

  Analyzing every word, every inflection of my voice. Trying to read my body language for any sign of discontent. His lips are smiling. But his maddeningly perceptive gaze is burning right through my impassive expression, boring straight into the root of my unease like a drill.

  I huff out an aggravated breath and take a sip of my martini. If I couldn’t keep him out of my head, I’d just drink until I didn’t care anymore. Until my thoughts slurred together and edges didn’t exist to contain logic.

  “Stop it,” I finally say, looking down at my menu to hide my aggravation.

  “Stop what?” I can practically visualize him narrowing those cunning eyes, causing the space between his brows to wrinkle with age and misplaced concern.

  “Shrinking me. I’m not your patient, Tuck. Stop it. I said I was fine and I meant it.”

  I look up just as he places his elbows on the table and leans forward. Sincerity rests on those lusciously full, bowed lips, fashioned into a comforting smile. “You’re right; you’re not my patient, Heidi. You’re my wife. And I’m worried about you.”

  That’s right. He said wife.

  I am somebody’s wife. And the somebody sitting across from me—a tall, tan Adonis with cornflower blue eyes, bourbon brown hair sprinkled with the first signs of maturity just at the temples, and a pronounced, chiseled jaw—is my husband, Tucker DuCane. The best man I know. The man I’ve loved and devoted my life to for the past ten years.

  “Ever since all that shit blew up with Justice, you’ve been busier than ever,” he continues, peering at me over the dark rims of his glasses. “The long hours, the trips every other week . . . you need to slow down. You’re a publicist, babe. Not a superhero.”

  I set down my menu and look away, unable to face his condescending stare. He doesn’t mean to be a patronizing ass, but he can’t help it. He’s a psychiatrist, and a damn good one at that. He gets paid hundreds upon hundreds an hour to listen to New York’s famously fucked up bitch and whine about their trivial, self-important lives. And he actually cares enough to help them. The man is practically a shoe-in for sainthood.

  Then there’s his most demanding case of all—me.

  I’ve been known as a lot of things—the Ice Queen of the North, a shark in stilettos, the Big Apple ball-buster, and my personal favorite, the blonde Olivia Pope. But I’m rarely known as a happy, doting wife. And that’s not a matter of negligence. Simply circumstance.

  Being married to the top publicist in New York is no picnic, especially one as notorious for her razor-sharp tongue as her colorful clientele. So it’s no surprise that most of this city wouldn’t make the connection between us. Tucker DuCane, serenity-inducing shrink to the upper crust married to Heidi DuCane, PR pit bull in a skirt? Doesn’t make sense.

  Except it does.

  Well, it did.

  A tall, tuxedo-clad young man with angular features and the smoothest, darkest skin I have ever seen approaches our table with a blinding white smile. “Dr. DuCane, Mrs. DuCane. Lovely to see you again. Another date night?” he asks in his intriguing accent that boasts of his Nigerian heritage combined with years of schooling in England.

  “Bilal, great to see you, young man. Sick of us already?” Tucker jibes, successfully smothering all signs of seriousness and using that blithe tone reserved for patients and the press.

  “Absolutely not, sir. I could never tire of my favorite guests, especially with Mrs. DuCane helping me nab the biggest campaign of my career.” He beams, casting brilliant light into the dimly lit dining room.

  “Don’t tell me you landed the Versace campaign. That’s amazing, Bilal!” I smile, stowing my Bitchy Resting Face and grasping his hand. I’m genuinely happy for him and I’m human enough to let it show.

  “I did! And I owe it all to you, Mrs. D,” he says, completely covering my much smaller hand with his long fingers.

  “Nonsense. You’re the one with the gorgeous face. I just simply made a call. It was nothing.”

  And I mean it. Bilal has been serving at our favorite steakhouse in the city for the past two years, and I’ve always felt he was way too pretty to be pushing pretentious plates of porterhouse for stuffy, old businessmen and groups of gal pals à la Sex and the City. But the fashion industry here is fiercely competitive, and even an extraordinary beauty like him was struggling to get seen by the right people. So I made a quick call, no biggie. Donatella owed me a favor anyway.

  Bilal makes quick work of taking our order, not even bothering to ask the desired doneness of our prime steaks—he already knows—before thanking me again. After checking on his other tables, he returns with a stellar bottle of Cab.

  “On the house,” he says with a wink as he fills our glasses. He doesn’t pause to give us the standard taste, either. He already knows that we’ll love it.

  Goes to show just how steeped in routine we are. Same restaurant, same food, same wine every third Friday night. Sometimes we mix it up and try the specials rather than our usual filet, but that’s as risky as we get. Which is good considering that I’m throttled into constant chaos Monday through Friday for twelve hours a day, as well as weekend galas, press junkets, and
premiers.

  Routine is good. Constant is good.

  And Tucker . . . Tucker is the king of constant. And he has been for the last ten years.

  “Any exciting plans tonight after dinner?” Bilal asks, making small talk.

  “Exciting? No,” I answer. “But I do need to have a late meeting with a band that’s in town tonight for a concert. Business as usual, of course.”

  “A band?” he inquires with a raised brow as he uncorks the wine bottle. “Anyone I know?”

  I glance over at Tucker with a tinge of nervousness. He hates when I talk business at dinner. It was the one concession I allowed him considering the other twenty-three hours of the day I eat, drink, and sleep all things work related. “Ransom. Heard of them?”

  His face is saying, Are you shitting me? but he’s much too polite to ever utter those words. “Yes, definitely. I was hoping to get tickets to tonight’s concert, but, of course, duty calls.”

  “I’ll let them know you’re a fan,” I offer before Bilal tips his head graciously and returns to the kitchen.

  “Awfully kind of you,” Tucker muses as he brings the rim of his wineglass to his lips. “And blasé, considering how much of a Ransom fan you are. Admit it, you’re dying to meet them. Or should I say, him?”

  And there he goes again. Shrinking me.

  See, Tucker is good at that. Better than good. He’s a goddamn walking mind fuck draped in a charcoal Brooks Brothers suit and Tom Ford readers. He looks like he’s itching to pick you apart just for the fuck of it. Only you’re too enthralled with the pretty packaging to realize it, let alone attempt to stop him from rummaging around in your head like a back-alley scavenger.

  To the untrained eye, he appears as the regally handsome man that he is. But to me—the woman he’s loved since I was just a jaded undergrad and he a young, ambitious psychiatric resident—he’s a high-paid emotional coddler.

  Of course, I’d never say that. To his face, at least.

  I roll my eyes before downing what’s left of my martini, the sear of the liquid stifling the anxiety rising in my gut.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lies.

  “Oh, come on, Heidi. Isn’t he on your list?”

  “It’s business, Tuck. I’m not going there tonight to live out some crazy fantasy that was merely meant to be a joke. Come on, you don’t actually think I take that stuff seriously?”

  He shrugs, giving me a knowing smile. “Your list, love. This was your idea, not mine.”

  I look down at my empty glass, already missing the burn of vodka on my tongue.

  He’s right. It was my idea.

  Some time ago, I asked Tucker who was on his Fuck-It List—women he could have a free pass with without repercussion from me. There were rules, of course. It’s not like he could include his hot, busty secretary or the young, perky shop girl at our favorite gourmet cupcakery. They had to be unattainable women that would be virtually impossible to meet, let alone sleep with. And the same would go for me.

  It started off as just pillow talk—playful banter as we kissed and flirted between the sheets of our bed, tucked away in our tiny shoebox of an apartment on the west side. This was when our marriage was still fresh and new. Before reserved date nights, scheduled sex, and secret eye rolls behind menus.

  “No one,” he’d said. “I could never imagine being with anyone but you.”

  I’d known he would say that. Tucker had always been furiously devoted to our marriage and me. “But come on,” I’d urged anyway. “There’s got to be some sexy model or actress that you wouldn’t mind spending a wild night with, no strings attached.”

  “Nope.” He’d smiled, causing the little crinkles at his eyes to only make him seem even more charming. “You’re all I want, Bunny.”

  I always softened when he used my childhood nickname, which I inherited from my family, along with two front buckteeth that stood so far out of my mouth they practically had their own zip code. Dr. Sawyer and two years of braces were able to fix the chompers, but the nickname stuck.

  “Ok, fine. You don’t have a list. Then what’s your fantasy? And don’t say me.”

  “I can’t say that I have any besides you. You have and always will be the keeper of my deepest desires. There is no one else.” He gave a passive half shrug before turning my words right back on me. He was good for that. “But since you brought it up, how about you? That list of yours must be pretty notable.”

  I gave a wave of nonchalance. “Not at all. Hardly worth mentioning.”

  “Oh, I seriously doubt that.” Tucker eased up on one elbow so his face hovered over mine. He looked genuinely interested. Maybe even a little fascinated.

  “I don’t know about this, Tuck.”

  A slow, lazy smile spread across those too-full lips as mirth danced behind his heavy-lidded eyes. “Come on, Bunny. Tell me. I promise I won’t judge.”

  I took a deep breath in an attempt to muster up some courage. He didn’t realize what he was asking for. But if honesty was what he needed, I’d give him just that.

  “All right, fine. Mark Wahlberg.”

  Deep, baritone laughter filled our modest bedroom, loud enough that I was sure Mrs. Epstein from downstairs could hear. Any minute now and she would be jabbing the ceiling with the blunt end of her broom and yelling Yiddish obscenities.

  “Marky Mark? You want a hall pass for Marky Mark?”

  I scoffed with feigned outrage and smacked his bare shoulder. “Hey, this is my list. And you promised you wouldn’t judge!”

  “Awwww, baby.” He pulled me into his arms and made quick work of dotting soft kisses along my neck and shoulder. “I’d never judge you, I promise. Go on, tell me the next one. I won’t even laugh.”

  “Ok, ok. Fine.” I’d surrendered with a heavy sigh, peering at him with one eye closed, bracing myself for his condemnation. “Gerard Butler.”

  Brows raised to the sky, Tuck peered down at me in surprise. “Wow. You really have a thing for older men.” Which had been a valid observation, considering he had more than a few years on me.

  But instead of agreeing or shrugging my shoulders, I gave him the third and final name on my list. The one that was sure to shock those tiny smile crinkles right from his handsome face.

  “Ransom Reed.”

  And like I had imagined, Tucker didn’t disappoint. “Ransom Reed?” he scoffed. “That little rocker punk? Sheesh, babe, what’s he, like, nineteen?”

  I waved off his disdain. “He’s legal. And it’s only a foolish fantasy. No way in hell I’d ever actually meet him.”

  That was before the PR agency I worked at put me on the fast track, letting me take the lead and prove myself with a couple of their elite clients. Before Tucker’s hard work and diligence had truly paid off, and word of mouth had tripled his annual intake. Back then we were just two bright-eyed, viciously determined professionals, working our fingers to the bone to try to just . . . make it.

  And we’ve made it.

  I look across the table at my husband—the man who had literally force-fed me bites of grilled cheese at my desk when I’d get too focused on work to stop and eat. And when I’d fall asleep at my laptop, my face pressed against the keys, he would carry me to the bed and strip me out of my work clothes. I’d feel him gently kissing the little square indentions on my cheek, his lips coasting across the phantom letters as if they were the sweetest braille.

  I never have to wonder if he loves me, if he cares for me. If he’ll be waiting for me when I get home, lounging in his favorite chair, a book in those massive hands and his readers pushed down to the bridge of his nose. And even when the media paints me as ruthless and opportunistic, he still manages to see the woman within—the one he fell in love with despite all her reasons why he shouldn’t.

  He’s the one thing I can always count on. The one person who’s become as predictable as the sun’s rising every morning, and its descent every evening.

  That should be cherished. Celebrated
even. And I do.

  I did.

  I look up at my husband, almost forgetting entirely what we were discussing over drinks and an artisan breadbasket. His probing stare tells me that he hasn’t.

  “You’re right, Tuck. It was my idea . . . my list.”

  Just as the words leave my lips, Bilal returns to our table to present our appetizers. I place a hand on his forearm before he turns away.

  “If you haven’t fired that steak yet, I’d like to change my order,” I say before sweeping my amused gaze to my husband’s perplexed expression. “I’ve got a taste for something different tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  Despite my offer to have our driver drop him off at our condo on Park before heading down to Madison Square Garden, Tuck insists on accompanying me to the Ransom concert. It’s completely out of character for him for various reasons. For starters, Tucker despises the concept of digital music. “Music should be felt,” he’s always said. “You should be able to hold it, smell it, taste it. You can’t do that with some goddamn download.”

  Considering himself a true purist, his record collection resembles that of a small vinyl shop, minus the choking dust and decaying scent of days gone by. He refuses to succumb to this generation’s need for instant gratification and will very gladly settle for his Sunday morning trips to various vintage music retailers. So to say that Tucker is a little behind the times when it comes to what’s new and notable is an understatement. Not that he minds in the least. He’d much rather trade Iggy Azalea and Hozier for B.B. King and The Beatles.

  Also, NYC nightlife has never been his scene, even when we were younger. Back in undergrad, I’d try to drag him away from boring medical texts on the scarce nights he was off work on weekends and push him right into the heart of his unease—a nightclub. He’d be a good sport, but after watching him guard the wall for hours while I danced with my friends, I knew I had to accept that he would never be the partying type. Which was cool with me. I would much rather have the settling-down type. And eventually, the marrying type.